


Mercy, Pity, Love.

by aactionjohnny



Category: Bleach
Genre: F/M, Light Angst, Sexual Tension, Slow Burn, Trauma, Wartime
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-08-30
Updated: 2019-09-08
Packaged: 2020-09-30 20:01:53
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 14,381
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20452763
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aactionjohnny/pseuds/aactionjohnny
Summary: It’s time to start again. She is so very, very sweet, and he is such a fool. They try so hard to delay the inevitable, but they are barreling toward each other on a steep incline, doomed to love.War has other plans, to keep them apart a little while longer.





	1. Dust.

**Author's Note:**

> Was thinking about them today and I hhhhhhhhhh this will go places I promise
> 
> Title is tentative, from a Keats poem

He hates what he’s done with the place. The color of the walls, the plain decor. His record player is collecting dust, deep within the closet. First order of business: interior design. Then he can deal with the many little elephants in all the corners of all the rooms of the 5th division. He has to undo a lot of damage that Aizen did, but he will start with his once-great office. 

He runs his finger along the desk, collecting a mound of dust. His lieutenant clearly hasn’t been using it either. No one’s been in here, as if the mark he left was a sink hole, a radiating void. If you cross the threshold, the event horizon of the sliding paper door, the despair will be your undoing.

But, Shinji stands in the center of all that sorrow, and he picks out paint colors and wall art. He folds his arms. This place is so quiet, now. Has it always been that way, since he left? Did he leave the division void of music and laughter, or had Aizen managed to artifice those things as well? They are both skilled illusionists. He hates that, being similar to him in so personal a way. 

He reverses, he does not manifest. He takes what is already there and he distorts it, changes it like a dusty office in need of reviving. He will make time go backwards, now. He will take back the home that was once his.

He’ll start with the music. Surely his record collection sits derelict somewhere, not even worth throwing away, in Aizen’s mind. Just buried like all other evidence that there ever  _ was _ a Shinji Hirako. He became a figment. Purely conceptual, and a smudge of shame on Soul Society’s record.

As if it’s so clear if blemishes anyway. Fuck this place, he thinks, tamping down his old loyalty as he pries open a wooden chest. They’re all there. Every single song he left behind, safe in their box from the dust and the rot. He slips one of the sleeves up from the stack, and runs his hand down the cover. He used to dance with ladies to this. He used to smile while he worked.

He hears the door slide open behind him, and he stands up, still holding onto the record like a shield. It’s his new lieutenant, a phrase he hardly feels he has the right to use. She was here first, in everyone else’s mind. She lingers at the threshold, as if the floor inside might burn her small feet.

“Hinamori,” he says, his throat dry from a long silence. He coughs. “What’s up?”

“I thought you might want today’s briefing, sir,” she says, holding out a thin folder, her voice so weak and quiet, hoarse as if a tube is still shoved down her throat, forcing her to breathe. He’d seen her, once, in the infirmary, once she could breathe on her own, and she deliriously told him all her sorrows, drifting in and out of sleep, making little sense.  _ He was the whole world. When he killed me I wasn’t angry _ . His fists tighten, and then he relents, taking the paperwork from her.

“Thanks…” He stacks it with his record, realizing then that he must look quite silly. But she won’t look at him. Only at her toes, how they nervously curl and uncurl. “Do ya...wanna come in?” he asks, holding out an arm, displaying for her the entire dismal room.

“Oh, I…” She wrings her hands. “No thank you, captain. I-I mean no disrespect…” 

She flutters like a little moth. Something, someone, who sits strapped to a chair leagues below them, has made her fragile. Shinji is sure there is a stony, stalwart soul in there somewhere.

“It’s alright, Hinamori,” he says, turning to put the record and the folder on the desk. “I get why you...ya know, wouldn’t wanna come in here.”

She looks up at him briefly, her eyes nearly gray with exhaustion. Poor girl. And though his heart is heavy with pity, he gets the sense she would admonish him for offering her any extra sensitivity. But still, how gaunt her cheeks are, how dry her hair and sloping her shoulders...maybe she was pretty, once. Like a little bird. 

“It’s just…” she mutters. “Hard to see it, you know? I spent so much time in there.”

He nods, slow and sad. 

“Didn’t mean to bring it up,” he says, apologetic, sliding out into the hall, out of the dark, dull office, and into the warm light. Out here, bathed in the sunny yellow reflected from the floorboards, she looks more like she ought to. Her power is all fire and bursting, she ought to spark the same. 

“It’s alright, Captain. It’s better than skirting around it, like everyone else does.” She allows a shy smile to tug at the side of her lips. He cannot help how he mimics, how he feels instantly just a little bit absolved. She sighs. “I feel like a pariah. Everyone looks at me and they see him.”

He falters, taken aback by her sudden candor. He hides his hands in his sleeves.

“Well, I don’t,” he tells her, fumbling an attempt at comfort. “I’d never seen ya before this, so…”

Her brow falls heavy. Real smooth, Hirako. He’s almost the exact opposite of helpful. “Listen, kid, you’re still who you are. You’re still a lieutenant, and if anyone gives you shit, you have my express permission to set ‘em on fire. And if you don’t wanna do it, you can have  _ me _ set ‘em on fire. And I don’t even have a fire zanpakutou,” he jests, clinging to any possibility that she may laugh, or at least no longer look like she is on the verge of tears.

“Hm,” she snorts, collecting one of her skinny wrists in her hands. “I can’t have you getting in trouble, sir. I’m too tired to run this place on my own.”

She turns on her heel and walks away, a knowing smile on her lips as she goes.

There is bursting, roaring fire in her. He can tell. He bites his lip as he watches her disappear down the corridor, her neatly-tied hair bouncing in her wake. Poor girl, sweet girl. He leans a hand on his office door and then slides it open, lazily walking back in like a man drunk or ill.

The record sits on his desk beneath the paperwork, and he rebels against his best emotional interest and flips open the folder instead of the record sleeve. Her handwriting is so neat, so small. Smudged in places, the messy ink surrounded by a dried pool of water. Tears. He frowns as he runs his hand down the page. He knows then that she is as strong as he thinks she is. To put on a brave face, though behind closed doors she weeps. He knows the struggle well, having spent so much of his time in the human world pretending to be carefree and without regret. Maybe he should tell her. Maybe he should let her know how  _ that man _ ruined him as well, and she’s not alone, and she’ll never be alone, and if she has to cry, she can cry.

But he closes the folder. He digs out his record player and listens to Miles Davis as he sweeps up all the dust.

-

Once she’s back in her quarters, she collapses against the closed door, gripping at her own arms and sliding down until she’s sitting on the floor. She trembles with the promise of tears, wondering how she manages to have any left. Wondering why she’s not a dried up husk yet, on the outside just like her insides, all ruined and useless. She’s gotten so thin, she knows, as she curls into a little ball and buried her head between her knobby knees.

It is so hard just to leave her dark room, sometimes. It is so hard to fake it, that she’s functioning, that she doesn’t feel as though his presence is shaking through the earth from below, climbing up her legs from the floor, wrapping around her throat and pulling her down, down, down…

She takes a deep breath and settles her head back against the door, pillowed by her soft bun. She’s grown to hate it. A cottony reminder of the past, it weighs down her very skull with its heft. She palms at it, grabbing at it like an apple in a tree, and pulls it down. Her face and shoulders are covered with the cloak of her hair. Another little hiding place.

Captain Hirako is kind. She thinks. She knows she oughtn’t trust anyone. Maybe never again. Her fealty to her division is at war with her pain, and she wants so much to admire him. To follow him. But the idea feels so empty. Maybe she’s never really been loyal to anything, to anyone but  _ that man _ . Maybe she means nothing without him.

She gathers herself, shrugging out of her clothes with such ease, letting her uniform fall to the floor in the growing heap. Naked she feels as she should. Like an animal. Helpless. In the mirror she sees the ugly scar that runs between her breasts. It bisects her down the center, so that she may live beside herself. Outside of herself. She wishes she didn’t have a body.

It’s so small, for starters. Were she taller, maybe she could be brave. Were she a little less pale, maybe she could smile. Were she bustier, curvier, more beautiful—

Rangiku would scold her for that sort of talk.  _ You’re still a gorgeous woman, Momo. _ She wishes that those, more friendly echos were the ones that most often repeated in her head. Instead it is the sound of a blade piercing flesh. A kind voice telling you how worthless you are. The beeping of machines that are forcing you to stay alive.

She runs her hands down her shoulders, her chest, her concave belly. Perhaps eventually she will just disappear. Sighing, she claws through her messy hair. It’s time.

Her craft scissors barely do the job, but after a lot of struggle, she’s free of the dark-brown web she’s been stuck in for years. Her hair falls now to her round chin, and she swears she looks a little more like a  _ person. _ With her bony hands she picks up all the discarded tresses, and she throws them into her fireplace, watching them curl and snap and disintegrate. It’s time to start again, she says to herself, for the one-thousandth time. Maybe this time it will stick. 

She lays awake in bed, staring out the window through the thin curtains. Above, she can see the light from the captain’s office. She used to gaze up so longingly, basking in the silence of Aizen’s quiet meditation, feeling his peace and his calm even from across the courtyard.

But now she hears the low meandering of a music she cannot name. Brand new, like a haircut, like tomorrow morning.


	2. Drink.

When he arrives, she’s already there. The office has been cleansed of dust and all of Aizen’s trappings, leaving it a fresh and empty space. She’s standing before his desk, setting out teacups. Her hair...never before has he really looked at the nape of her neck. Truly like a bird, she looks fragile. Pale, her skin clear, the neck easing into the collar, the shoulders, her slight back and svelte frame…He stands in the doorway a moment, fingers tapping on the frame, sticking his tongue out the side of his mouth, searching for the words.

“You came in,” he says finally, and begins to slouch over to her. She nods, turns her head, and smiles upon him.

“I realized you must think I’m crazy. I mean, it’s just a room,” she says, tucking some of her freshly cropped hair behind her ear. “I thought it was time to at least...try.” She pours him some tea and slides the cup across the desk to him as he sits.

She’s standing, and he finds he likes feeling smaller than her. Impossibly so, she towers, and it feels like she deserves it. He leans back in his chair.

“Not crazy,” he muses, stretching his arms above his head, resting his hands on the back of his chair. She looks away. “He really did a number on you, Hinamori.”

She nods, the mirth dissipating. He just keeps fucking up.

“I’m sorry—“

“Stop,” she commands, and he finds he’s helpless but to obey. “I’m tired of getting apologies from the wrong people.”

He nods slowly, understanding in full. He’s never gotten an apology from the right person either. 

He scolds himself; he’d thought that, when not hanging around his fellow Visored captains, he would feel utterly alone, Seireitei having become a strange place to him with time. But he’s been a fool, he knows now. There is someone who has suffered by the same machinations. This poor girl, with holes through her perfect chest—

He’d better not start that sort of thought. He’s ever a lech, and she deserves better than him weaseling his way into bed only to forsake her the morning after. That’s been his way for a long time now. But still, how her hair skims the curve of her jaw, how her clavicle runs away beneath her uniform like it’s trying to hide...He snaps himself out of it in favor of blowing cool air onto his tea.

“I’ve been rude, Captain,” she says as she takes a polite sip. “I haven’t asked about you much.”

He shrugs.

“You’ll figure me out as we go.” He grins then, the trademark, unable to keep himself from his wiles.

-

They go on as such. Each day she seems to find out a little more about him, she peels back another layer to reveal more secrets, more stories, more charming mannerisms and soft spots. He repaints his office, brightens it up, covers the walls with strange human art. Curiously she eyes the paintings, tilting her chin up. She feels him behind her, the weight, the reiatsu.

“Basquiat,” he says, and she hums as if she knows who that is. “Reminded me of...how it felt at first.”

“How what felt?” she asks, tilting her head to the side, wondering how a man like Shinji could fit all that hectic despair inside of him.

“Being hollowfied,” he tells her, his tone notably somber, and he ambled over to his little bar, grabbing blindly for a familiar bottle of sake. “And then dealing with it. Felt like my soul was getting split open from the inside.” He turns to her, holding the bottle, and with his free hand he paws at his chest. “From right here.”

She finds she copies him, settling her fingers on her sternum.

“How did you get control of it?”

He turns back around, snorting out a little laugh as he pours them both a drink. Oh.

“Badly, at first. I don’t even remember those first ten years, Hinamori,” he says, tapping the two glasses together like a toast. She giggles girlishly, and he hands her one of the little bowls. “When I wasn’t fighting myself, I was drinking. Rose and I had a bit of a, uh...opium phase.”

“Oh—“

He shakes his head and takes a sip.

“S’all good now, a’course,” he assures her. “Eventually we got our heads on straight. Well, as much as I can.”

“Right,” she says softly. “You do everything backwards.” 

He winks and she feels she needs to gulp down her entire drink in one go, but she stills herself. It’s still working hours, for a few more minutes. The sun is setting, though, and his yellow office is bathed in a dim light. She sips timidly.

“So...ya know, no one can blame you for being a bit of a mess,” he goes on, sauntering then over to the window to lift the blinds. “...he does that to people.” His face is very flat and grave as he stares out at the setting sun.

“ _ A bit _ may be an understatement, Captain,” she parries, joining him by the window. “I looked like a ghost even after I was out of the infirmary.”

“We do gotta put a little meat on your bones, Hinamori,” he chides, poking her in her stark shoulder with one long finger. 

“You’re—“ she stammers, feeling her cheeks grow warm and clammy. “You’re just as thin!!” Her protests are flimsy and flustered, and she hates how he laughs, no matter how gentle. He sticks out that pierced tongue, and she wants to slap him. She takes a more generous sip.

“I’m just messin’ with ya,” he says, going back to the bar for another round. He lifts the bottle as if to ask her if she wants another, and she nods. Might as well. She’s so nervous and she just can’t place it. Better to take the edge off. “Y’look...better. I mean, you were always—“ He groans a little as he pours them another round. “You get what I’m saying.”

She bites her lip, wishing she had the guts to fight him on it.  _ No, sir, what are you saying? That I’m cute? That you’ve looked? _ But she decides to behave.

“Thank you, sir,” she says, gratefully accepting more booze. It’s been a long week. She’s not a heavy drinker, nothing like Matsumoto or Kira, but she does alright.

They watch as the sun goes from blue, to pink, to orange, to blue again, but so much deeper. From across the courtyard she can see her window, mysterious in the dark, the void-like chasm of her quarters. She’s tired, but she can’t bring herself to go back there. Not yet. There is a giddiness to the night that she tries so hard to stifle. When Shinji breaks out his records again, she fails. The music fills the room with warmth, and she watches as his thin fingers snap to the rhythm, expert and deft. His hands are wide and flat, a little veiny, but somehow delicate. Devoid of callus or scar, despite his long, dangerous life. As she studies them, she sighs, aloud, then nearly clamps her hand over her mouth.

But he’s not heard her, clearly. He’s just humming along, a smile on his face, his feet light against the floor as he joins her once again at the window.

“What’s this?” she asks, as if any answer will make sense to her. It’s all so strange. Basquiat. Warhol. Miles Davis. Coltrane. He’s lived such a storied life compared to her.

“Louis Jordan,” he says. A rough but velvet voice croons from the speakers.

_ Is you is or is you ain’t my baby? _

It’s silly, but she likes it.  _ He _ likes it, and he is infectious.

“Do ya dance?” he asks, holding out one of those languid hands.

“Oh— n-not really,” she says, shaking her head, shrinking in on herself. 

“Fair enough,” he says. He is too kind to her. He is too careful with her fragile will, and she wishes she would have said yes. She wishes he would take her by the hand and spin her until she drops. It wouldn’t be hard; already she feels quite drunk. Maybe it’s better, then, not to take his hand. Who knows what he’s really like. She trusts too easy, she knows now. For all her hoping that he will be a nice man and a good captain, he could be a villain in disguise. Every man can. She is so afraid, and so often…

Her cheek feels a little wet, and she tastes the salt on her tongue, dripping from her eye.

“Hinamori—“ he says, lifting the needle from the record and walking to her. “Did I say something?”

She shakes her head. She hates this. She hates being weak, being labile, so prone to sobbing when she ought to smile.

“No, sir,” she says through her choking. Don’t cry, don’t cry— “I was just…” She sniffs, and before she can explain to him or even to herself, she’s enveloped in broad sleeves filled with skinny limbs.

“It’s okay, Hinamori,” he says. His grip on her is measured, as if afraid he could snap her in half. As if afraid she will run and scream and despise him. She allows her head to fall against his chest. 

How many times has she stood in this room, practically pleading for any dose of affection or approval, receiving nothing, being left always wanting and always lonesome and always full of love with nowhere to put it, she overflows, she drowns, her lungs are full of blood and it’s all searing pain and wet, hot tears—

“I—“ he begins, and then he sighs, resting his chin atop her head. “I was gonna apologize again. Caught myself.”

She laughs just a little. He pulls away, hands on her shoulders, and she looks up at him, hating her hopeful eyes and that familiar sinking feeling. Standing before a man she must obey, drenched in her own sorrow, full of anguish...It grips hard onto her lungs.

“I—“ she stammers. “I need to go, sir.” 

She turns away so quickly she makes herself dizzy, but she keeps heading for the door.

“Thank you for the drinks,” she mumbles, fumbling with the handle. “A-And the music. I’m sorry I don’t dance…”

Before he can protest, she leaves. She walks briskly through the barracks, her hands bound in fists, her cheeks flushed and her head spinning.

-

He sighs when she’s gone. It doesn’t feel like it usually does when a woman storms out of his office. For one, he hadn’t even made a move on her. And it hurts worse. The slamming of a door hasn’t made him feel so sick in a very long time.

He pours himself another drink and saunters out to his balcony, leaning his elbows on the edge, sighing at the dark sky and the vague horizon of the Seireitei surrounding him. He hears soft, fervent footsteps, and looks to the source to see Hinamori, shuffling home, mumbling to herself and holding her own face in her hands. He can’t make out what she’s saying, but when she makes it to her door, she takes a deep breath and turns around, leaning her back against the wood.

She notices him. He leans his head in one hand and waves with the other. She falters at first, toying with her own sleeves, and then she heals the evening's wound with a smile. 

Once her door is shut, the light within her quarters comes on, and he can see the shape of her through the blinds. He knows he ought to look away, go to bed, stop drinking, not even think about her—

But he sees as her silhouette wilts, the uniform falling from her shoulders. He sees the gentle curve of her back and hips…and, when he can tear himself away from those, he swears he sees her head spin, toward him, as if challenging him to look.

“Fuck…” he mumbles, leaning down, his forehead on the railing of the balcony. He’s done for, maybe. As he walks to bed he tries so much to convince himself it’s a moment’s lust, a fleeting feeling formed by the sake coursing through him. That, by morning, his hands won’t feel empty and his chest won’t flutter at the thought of touching her.

He sleeps fitfully, full of little nightmares rife with blood and screaming. He wonders if she dreams like that, too. She’s been in a similar hell.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Shinji: oh no oh Hell no we not doin this 
> 
> Sorry Shinji but we doin this
> 
> I want to sit down and really write out a lot about their trauma but my brain is fried rn so! I want this to be a longer fic, fairly involved, I dunno. I’m in my last semester of undergrad rn so this is a nice respite from the writing I actually Have to do. And fic is always good practice.


	3. Denial.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bit of a slow chapter. Just setting up some plot points and exploring how thirsty these mofos are.

It had been a stupid idea, acting that way. Showing him the shape of her through the thin curtain, tempting him as if she has anything worth lusting over. She had never been so bold with her last captain, no matter how she pined. But her last captain never drank with her. He never wrapped her up in his arms when she wept, and he never waved at her boyishly from a balcony like a lover in a storybook. She blushes as she lays in bed, cursing herself for having been so brash. What could he want with her? And, even if he did, what business does she have, acting like she could go through with it?

Her body is locked like a prison cell. She flinches at most touch, recoils at most men’s smiling. Shinji is a worldly man, a man who has probably racked up enough notches in his bedpost that they become innumerable.

But that must mean he’s good. Not that she has any basis for comparison.

The next day she sleeps in a little, trying so very hard not to hate herself for it. Rangiku says she needs to go easy on herself, lest she work herself to death. Momo figures that working is an acceptable way to very slowly commit suicide, since she wouldn’t be brave enough otherwise. But she has to be stronger than that. She has to take a day off, even if it makes her crazy.

She meets Rangiku in the garden, sighing at the sight of her amidst all the flowers. Beside her, Momo feels very little and very ugly indeed. But she’ll be scolded for saying so, so she keeps quiet on her approach, offering a gentle, tired smile.

“Momo~” Rangiku coos, leaning down to hug her, the heat of her chest suffocating. “It’s been too long since we’ve talked.”

“I know. I’m sorry,” she says, ever quick to apologize. Rangiku frowns at her, and she has to stop herself from apologizing for apologizing.

“How  _ are _ you?”

Momo flinches, hating the way people ask that question. It carries so much weight, now.

“I think I’m hungover,” she says slowly, running her dainty fingers over the flower petals behind the wooden fence. “I had some drinks with Captain Hirako and I think I got carried away.”

Rangiku raises her well-plucked brows.

“What?” Momo asks, pouting, feeling her cheeks grow hot.

“I guess you two are getting along then.”

“I suppose.”

“Oh, he didn’t try to make a move on you did he?!”

“No!” she shouts, curling her arms around herself. “He’s...he wouldn’t do that. I don’t know what you’ve heard…”

“He’s a flirt,” Rangiku says. “ _ That _ was clear from the moment I met him.”

Momo bites the insides of her cheeks and furrows her brow.

“He flirted with you?”

“Oh, masterfully, Momo. Were I an  _ easy _ woman I think I might have—“

She stops in her tracks, seeing the scrunched-up and uncomfortable look on Momo’s face. At first she grins like she knows something, and then her features droop a little bit. They take a moment to stare silently, their gazes pleading to communicate. It is a privilege that comes with knowing someone for so, so long, reading their face without exchanging a word.

“Don’t tell anyone,” Momo warns, knowing how she gossips. “It’s just...I mean, half the people in my division have a crush on him! It’ll go away.”

“Mhm.”

“And besides, it wouldn’t be good for me, he’s my captain and we all know that didn’t exactly work out for me last time.” She paws at the spot on her chest where the proof lies. “...who would want me anyway…”

She’s enveloped in another suffocating hug, but she doesn’t protest. She is too desperate for affection to turn it away when it comes from a trusted source. She will blame last night on being starved for touch. She will blame it on the sake and the sunset.

She doesn’t tell her about her little flirtation, about the offer to dance, about how he wouldn’t stop looking at her bare neck. About how his honesty made her feel a little more weak in the knees. About how she had a nice little dream of him, and how she hates how quickly the memory of it is fading. She smiles as she looks out across the courtyard, leaning her head against Rangiku’s shoulder. The breeze refreshes her dry skin and eyes, and they talk of little things, meaningless things. It keeps the hurt at bay, pretending they are just two friends who have not suffered greatly. Just like, last night in the warm glow of her messy quarters, she pretended to be worth wanting.

-

Some traditions, they hang onto like life rafts. Every Saturday for about a century, Shinji and Rose would share a bottle of red wine and listen to music. This weekend the choice fell to Rose, and thus his gaudy quarters are bathed in the overwhelming noise of King Crimson. It’s a painful album, and not just because it isn’t to Shinji’s taste. It contains multitudes of angry sorrows that make him feel as though he’s fighting the monster inside of him which he’s tried so hard to restrain. 

Rose says it’s therapeutic. He tries to agree, sipping his Cabernet and tapping his foot on the shag carpet. It’s not his style, but he supposed that after shacking up in a warehouse for a hundred years he would go overboard as well.

“Settling back in alright?” Rose lilts, dissolving onto the couch.

“Eh,” Shinji says, shrugging, crossing one spindly leg over the other. “S’weird. But it’s nice to be home.”

“And your lieutenant?”

“What about her?”

Rose holds up his hands as if in defense.

“Merely asking, darling,” he says, though his distinct features take on a look of pride.

“She’s a sweet girl. Been through a lot,” he says into the rim of his wine glass. “I’m sure she’s no one to fuck with in a fight, despite her whole…” He gestures vaguely.

“Her whole  _ what? _ ” Rose asks.

“She’s got this...delicate flower thing about her. Or a hummingbird. But she’s tough.”

“One must be, to survive what she has…”

A somber silence falls between the tracks of the record. When the music starts again, Shinji sighs and eases into the couch.

“And yours? He’s like a little dove learnin’ how to fly.”

“Oh, really Shinji, he’s not so fragile. He’s quite dear to me already.”

Shinji sticks out his tongue.

“Stop that. He’s my subordinate.”

Shinji snorts, and then he takes a generous sip of his wine. His subordinate...he guesses that is good enough a reason not to pursue someone. He can cling to that to keep him from making a sweet mistake with Momo. He tries so much to be a good man, doesn’t he? After years of lechery and reeling substance abuse, he’s turned back into the noble captain he once was. No matter how pretty she is, no matter how much he struggles to get the image of her nude silhouette out of his head... _ God _ , how her lithe limbs flowed so weakly, how her modest breasts seemed to sharpen in the cold…

“I need another drink, Rosey,” he mumbles, realizing that he has sunken even lower into the couch.

“Rough week?”

Shinji grunts some affirmative noise as he holds out his glass to be refilled.

“Do you think I’m a good person?” he asks, cutting the room in two with his sudden words. It’s cruel to ask, because he and his little family long ago promised to always be honest with one another, and he might not like the honest answer…

“Did you tie one on before coming here, Shinji? You’re so gloomy.”

He turns his head to look at him, never lifting it from the couch cushion.

“Answer me…”

Rose crosses his legs and places a hand to his chin. Shinji drinks as he waits, trying to enjoy the bouquet, the flavor, but all he wants is to get it down his throat as fast as he can. It does funny things to him, lust, when it’s this strong and sudden. His hollow has always been some perverted beast, hungry for flesh in every way imaginable. To feel something a little like affection, and know that he can’t express it, it makes that monster in his soul writhe and whine. Surely she deserves better than that. Better than someone with a body so tainted as his, so tortured and evil in the heart.

“I think you are, Shinji, despite everything. We know bad people and what they do to others,” Rose says finally, punctuating his affirmation with a hearty sip. “What has you wondering?”

He can’t tell him. He can’t tell him that he’s afraid a pretty girl is tearing away at the layers that hide how awful he truly is. That looking at her, thinking of all she’s been through at the hands of someone he should have killed when he had the chance, he feels on fire, smoldering from the inside out. He’s never had someone to protect before. With the other Visored he was always the de facto leader, but never charged with saving them, protecting them. They all had their inner monsters, and they were capable of defending themselves. And Momo, though she’s strong, when he’s near her he feels as if his arms are empty, like he must reach out to her across any distance. All this, beneath a want that he knows will become unbridled if not kept in check. He finishes his second glass, and then leans forward, his head in his hands.

“I wanna bang my lieutenant—“

Rose spits, spattering the coffee table with specks of wine.

“ _ Shinji! _ ”

“I know, I know, okay? It’s awful, I’m awful—“

“I didn’t say that.”

“You thought it.”

“Never.”

Shinji groans and reaches for the wine bottle to fill himself up anew. Out of the corner of his eye, he can see Rose grinning. Cheeky asshole, always in love with love, and eager to tease about it.

“It’ll fade, Shinji. Your crushes always do. Just enjoy the giddiness for a little while, hm?”

He tells himself it will be that easy.

Later in the evening, as he waltzes back to the 5th division, he sees her walking side-by-side with Matsumoto, the dusk light like a painted backdrop behind them, the glowing lights of the faraway Rukongai in the distance. You would think, given the way things usually go, that he would be captivated by Matsumoto, objectively beautiful beneath the rising moon. And yes, she’s a sight to see, and a force to be reckoned with, but she and every other person seems to disintegrate around him. It’s just Momo, her cheeks flushed in the evening cold, changed into a deep red kimono, like wine, the back of her neck and the slope of her chest like a delicate decanter. She intoxicates. 

He cannot quell the anger he feels. Toward his former subordinate, that cruel, cruel monster, worse than the beast he shares a body with. How could anyone look upon someone so lovely, so precious, and be anything but kind? A slave to her scent and her laugh. 

He despises that man, and he gets to live. He gets to share a space with those he’s hurt the most. He realizes too late that he is staring at her, feverishly, and in shame he turns to walk inside of the barracks.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Shinji: angery
> 
> Been loving your feedback so far!!!


	4. Dream.

The nightmares come often. They are inspired by so many years of hurt, amplified by the looming presence of a nemesis. An enemy, and yet Sosuke probably doesn’t even consider him one. Arrogant bastard, trapped down there but alive, all the time in the world to think, to plot, to bolster his own pride. All the time in the world to regret nothing. Nothing at all. How unfair.

This night, Shinji keeps kicking the covers off. He rolls to and fro, his arms splayed, his back collecting beads of sweat as he struggles to fall asleep. And when he does, it is a sleep so light he could swear his dreams are lucid.

He is standing in a dark room, the ceilings so high and the floor cold as steel. In the center, he’s there, Sosuke, strapped in and helpless. Shinji watches as his fingers play along the sturdy armrests, itching to escape, having no choice but to stare straight ahead.

Momo sits at his feet, her arms and head draped over his lap like a servant. Her eyes are dull and dim, her cheeks stained with tears that sparkle in the modest candlelight of the cell. Even sad, she is so beautiful. 

He approaches, one hand held out into the darkness, walking slowly toward the chair. As he moves, it seems to just get farther and farther away, the room expanding, endless and impossible, and then he starts to run. 

When finally he reaches them, he holds out a hand for Momo to take. She doesn’t move.

“You cannot take what does not belong to you,” Sosuke says, his voice ever calm and knowing. He smiles that little smile, the one that haunts Shinji even when awake, the one that makes him want to run that asshole through the chest with a sword. See how he likes it. Shinji scowls, and, ever-rough in his nightmares, propelled by his inner hollow, he grabs Momo by the arm and pulls her up to stand beside him. 

“What are you going to do, Shinji?” Sosuke asks. “Have your way with her in front of me? Do you really think that will hurt me? She means nothing.”

Shinji balls his hands into fists, trying to ignore it, trying to pretend that no, that’s not what he wants, that he wouldn’t relish the chance to rub it in his smug face. Making him watch. Touching every inch of her and making sure he knows just how soft her skin is, just how good she tastes. Making her groan and melt and forget that ever there  _ was _ a man named Sosuke Aizen. Shinji licks his lips.

She stares up at him, the fog clearing from her eyes, and by some magnificent, sourceless breeze, her uniform is pulled from her shoulders as if by his own gentle, wanting hands. He watches in awe as it drops to the floor, as she steps closer to him, placing her hands on his chest, squeezing her breasts between her arms, pressing them to his body, curling her hips toward his. He shivers.

“You can have her, Shinji,” Sosuke says. “But you cannot fix her.”

He wonders, then, if he cares. No one can fix  _ him _ , either. They’ve both been damaged beyond repair, and she will never be good as new. If she can’t be fixed, why should he try? Why should he take care not to make her worse? And he could make her  _ so _ much worse, he knows. She stands before him, welcoming and perfect, eager to take everything he has to give her, and he stirs like he’s about to become that feral beast he despises.

He hears the growling first. Always it growls before it takes hold, digging its teeth into the back of Shinji’s neck like he is some helpless kitten. And he is, so weakened by lust, rock-hard and distracted. His guard goes down like a lead balloon, and his hollow creeps out of his soul and onto his skin, through his fingers which grip her roughly by the arms, his teeth which long to sink into her pretty neck. 

“Captain,” she says, too calm, too gentle. Too sweet and too good for him. But he doesn’t let go. “It’s okay. I want to die.”

With a sharp inhale, he tucks his head into the curve of her shoulder, his pierced, wet tongue dragging across her skin, up her neck, sliding into her ear, and she gasps.

He’s screaming when he wakes up, his fingers with their own volition, clawing at his own throat and chest as if he’s trapped inside of himself. His vision is a seering red, his pulse running away from him, and he knows he has only a few moments before it takes him over entirely. Accosted with visions of her, of how he could have had her, visions of Sosuke’s face as he watched in jealous horror, visions of blood, visions of  _ his own blood _ —

He runs to the bathroom and lands on his knees in front of the toilet, hurling up all the food and wine and shame he’s been collecting, holding his own face to keep the mask from appearing. This has not happened in  _ years _ . Once he’s empty, once he can breathe, he sits down, his back against the wall and his skinny legs bent before him, arms cast lazily over his knees. He remembers every day being like this, so long ago. When it was all brand new and painful, when he could barely control the horror. He would plunge himself into revelry to forget and to numb, to paralyze his soul to keep it calm. Now he has too much to be responsible for. He has to much, she’s  _ too much, _ and he knows she’s just yards away, in her quarters, waiting in bed, even more glowing than in his nightmares. He could go, he could get on his knees or whisper in her ear or throw her over his shoulder like an animal—

He has to see her. He’s not sure what for, he’s not sure if he can stand it, but he has to see her. In a fervor he splashes cold water on his flushed face, and throws on a dark gray yukata and a thin black cravat around his neck. He has standards, even in the middle of the night, even when he knows he has bags beneath his reddened eyes and the look of a man who is crazed. But he needs her. She needs him, maybe, even if he can’t fix anything. Even if he can’t touch her and will only suffer in lust until he dies.

He’s dramatic, he knows, as he rushes out into the rainy night. Of course, he thinks, it downpours as if his heart could command the weather. And it will be so romantic and it will be so cliché, and his clothes will soak and she will take him into her arms like a wounded lover—

He knocks on her door. He dooms himself.

-

She’s been laying awake, her ankles crossed, staring at the same ceiling she has so long studied. Often in distress, always anxious. But tonight there is some modicum of giddiness in her heart, remembering her gossip and gushing with Rangiku, how she’d allowed herself to swoon just a little.  _ He asked me to dance with him. _ It’s just like Rangiku to wring information from her with her gentle prodding. And Momo can’t even pretend to mind, can’t pretend to hate how she smiles when she thinks of him. She feels all new again, like a school girl.

But so swiftly do those feelings turn her stomach. The last time she felt sweet on someone, she had aided in the destruction of the lives of everyone around her. She had been duped and injured and broken beyond repair, and feeling something like love just makes it all come back. Even if he could want her, it would only end in tragedy. Eventually he will tire of her neediness. He will tire of the crying he just can’t stop. 

But still, when she thinks of his hands, she squirms. She’s not really been touched before. Not the way she wants. Her innocence frustrates her; she wants to know what it’s like to melt in the arms of a man. She wants to break out of herself, and be a different person. Someone sane. Someone who can love without fear.

He rapping on her door startles her, and she squeaks, ashamed of the lewdness of it, and she scrambles to her feet, shuffling over to the door as the thunder cracks.

“Oh—“ She clutches her chest, so excitable. “Who, at this hour—“

He’s drenched. His soft, silky hair is stringy and dripping with the rain, and his skinny arms are wrapped tight around his body. His bottom lip trembles like a child about to cry, and she softens. 

“Can I come in…?” he mumbles, barely audible over the thunder above. She steps back, allowing him in, and he approaches, seeming to tower over her. His teeth chatter, and she tries not to laugh at the pitiful sight of him. It’s refreshing, seeing a captain like this. She  _ never _ saw Aizen in the slightest bit of disarray.

But Shinji is a mess. He’s a delightful, freezing cold mess, and she resists the urge to hug him to warm him up.

“What’s the matter, Captain?” she asks, rushing to grab him a woolen blanket.

“Just ah...couldn’t sleep, I dunno…”

He takes the blanket and drapes it over his sloping, slender shoulders.

“So you...came here?”

He gives her a bashful smile.

“I…”

The thunder claps again, and she jumps just a little, prompting Shinji to place his cold hands on her shoulders.

“It’s nice to talk to you, Hinamori.”

Her heart sinks even as it swells. Of course.

“Oh—“

“And bein’ that you’re my lieutenant, you gotta help me out when I need it,” he ribs, grinning in full, and she laughs. It seems to clear the room of the heavy fog she had been squinting through. She sees him clear. A sweet man who just wants to talk. Who will protect her from thunder and bad, bad men, and teach her how to dance.

She hates herself, more than usual, for having doubted him.

“I’ll put on some tea,” she insists, and she frees herself from his gentle grasp. “And we can talk.”

There is much to talk about, she’s sure. She’s heard so many of his stories, but he has centuries of things to say. He can talk, and she can listen, and she can slowly become certain that her momentary infatuation will become unbearable in time. But she is too weak to save herself from the heartache.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Shinji you need a therapist 
> 
> Lmk what you think! I’m enjoying this a lot


	5. Dry.

Her quarters are cleaner than she’d let on. That, or she’s been caring for them better since last she lamented about her mess. Everything is plain and clean, a few stray articles of clothing tossed about the floor, and Shinji tries not to imagine them getting there. Of her, tired and wilting, shrugging out of a kimono at the end of the day, stepping slow and dainty into the bath--

She hands him a cup of tea and he mumbles a vague _ thank-you _ as she sits around the other side of the table. Too far away, like where she sat in his dream, beholden to their terrorizer, but he decides against reaching out across the wood for her little hand.

“What’s on your mind, Captain?” she asks meekly, her voice muffled by the cup as she blows on the steaming liquid. Her tone is professional, friendly, but nothing more.

“I…” He can’t possibly tell her the truth.  _ Oh, nothing really, just had a dream I fucked you in front of our abuser _ . “I feel like spilling it, Hinamori.”

“Spilling what?” Her voice is so very quiet against the rain and thunder that still accosts the roof and walls.

“Feels like I ain’t been super honest with ya,” he says, taking in a strong whiff of the tea she’s made. It smells perfect, and he admires her skill, but knows deep down why she knows just the right way to make it. It smells too familiar, the exact strength that Sosuke used to fuss over. “I told ya about all the drinkin’, and fuckin’ around, like it...I dunno, like my suffering was an adventure.”

She takes a slow sip. He hates how good a listener she is.

“...he hurt me, too, Momo. I don’t wanna tell ya it ever goes away, because it doesn’t.”

He watches as her thin fingers curl tighter around her teacup, as she sucks her lips in like she’s fighting off tears, and he prepares himself for the worst: seeing her weep. It has proven to be so gut-wrenching, so devastating, it is no wonder he should develop this foolish desire to protect her. To make it so that she doesn’t have to cry anymore. She nods, her eyes downcast.

“That would be too easy, wouldn’t it?” she asks, jesting though her voice is full of sorrow still. “For you and me, I mean. Nothing’s allowed to be easy.”

“No,” he agrees, shaking his head, a half-smile creeping onto his lips. She’s so clever. She’s...adorable, sitting there  _ seiza _ as if she’s in trouble, her doe eyes wide upon the tea in her hands. “So I guess I mean...what I’m sayin’ is…” He fumbles as always, shifting his position, and he notes that she smiles upon him as if endeared by his awkwardness. “If you’re ever a mess, I’m here for ya. If you ever remember any thing, any stupid little thing that motherfucker said or did, my door’s open.”

The thunder claps again. He sees a single tear struggle down her cheek.

“Y-you’re so kind, Captain…” She dissolves, covering her mouth, setting the cup down on the table. “You’re such a nice man--” Her voice cracks, and he panics as he sees her shoulders shake. 

“Oh--” He’s quick to scramble to his feet, rounding the table and sitting down cross-legged beside her. “If ya think _ I’m _ nice, he was even worse than I thought.” She snorts, mercifully, smiling through her tears. With his sleeve he dabs at the tears on her round face. She sniffs hard, gathering up any snot that threatens to pour from her button nose.

“I really wish I didn’t cry all the time, Captain.”

“I don’t like t’see it,” he admits. “But if ya gotta cry, ya gotta cry.” 

He remembers trying to fight it. Late at night, struggling with his inner monster, so close to giving up hope he would do anything to keep the tears inside. Until he eventually, inevitably, broke down, drowning in his own sobs, laying on the floor beside Rose. Or was it Hiyori? Or was it Lisa? Maybe they all took their turn consoling him and failing.

They sit side-by-side in silence for a while as she drinks her tea. His grows cold, because he cannot bear to stand back up, leaving her alone for even a moment. The thunder slows and the storm gets farther away, but the rain keeps pitter-pattering down all around them.

“I like the rain,” she says, tilting her head up to the sky as if she could see through the roof to the dark, rolling clouds. “It’s too sunny here all the time.”

“Yeah?”

“Makes me feel like I can’t be sad. Like I’m wasting the good weather, you know?”

He does know. He remembers longing for a downpour to match his mood.

“You oughta see the rain in the human world,” he tells her, reaching his arm out, spreading his fingers as if displaying the landscape for her. “It’s much worse, n’ it looks like it’s comin’ from nowhere when you’re in the city.”

“Oh…”

“I’ll take ya someday.”

“I’d like that.”

More silence, and she runs out of tea. The rain subsides, and her tears dry up all the way. In the dim candlelight, she’s a vision. Her eyes so sad and vacuous, drawing him in like a whirlpool. He wishes he could kiss her. He wishes he could tell her that she’s perfect already, and he can’t fix her because there’s nothing to change. Her nightgown, wrapped loosely around her small frame, seems to melt off of her shoulders. He can see the bones of her sternum, the soft valley between her small breasts. He allows himself a moment to stare. He allows himself, sinfully, to wonder if they are even better than they were in his dream. If her legs, crossed at the ankle now, would part for him if he asked. If her cheeks would flush and her toes would curl, if she would whine his name so desperately--

He snaps out of it. What a lech.

-

She’s spent the entire night nervous. More than usual, with him being so close. She wonders, and keeps wondering, off and on, if he’ll make a move on her. And she wonders even more if she would let him. If she would just give in to any touch or kiss, if she truly is so malleable to just dissolve at his affections. It might be easier to just let it happen.

But she reminds herself she cannot be to his tastes. She needn’t consider how he might hold her, or how he might whisper in her ear, because there’s no fathomable way it could happen.

But still, she cannot help her imagination. What would it look like, to be made love to? She can’t picture her limbs just right, can’t hear her own voice moaning. Rangiku told her she should try it alone. Get herself off, get to know herself. But each time she tries she chickens out, knowing his office window is so close by, worrying he could see, even though the windows and blinds are tightly shut.

At least, if he tries to have sex with her, it will save her the trouble of figuring it out on her own. She scolds herself; he is not some predacious monster, despite what lives inside of him. Surely he would be gentle. Surely he would lay his head upon her scar with enough adoration to make it go away.

“It’s not like people think it was,” she says, surprising even herself. “Between he and I.”

“Hm?”

“We weren’t....he didn’t…” She wrinkles her nose. 

“Oh, I see,” Shinji says. 

“He would _ never  _ give me that satisfaction,” she says, knowing how bitter she sounds. Still it stings, to say anything disparaging about Aizen. As if she’s still betraying him. As if she ought to care about his feelings. Shinji chuckles.

“You’re a firecracker, you know that?”

They talk for a long time, until the sun begins to come up and the sky outside her windows turns the periwinkle of impending dawn. They swap grievances. He tells her he likes her haircut. He tells her that sometimes he wants to go down to where ‘that bastard’ is being held and talk to him just to make him annoyed. He tells her about Sakanade, about his inner world, about how he was the one who got people to start playing records in reverse to hear hidden messages. She giggles all the while, girlish from his charm, unable to help but drift closer toward him. He has gravity. She can’t stay away.

Men are like an addiction, always. This high will not last. It would just be too easy, wouldn’t it?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ok so i've worked four days in a row doing 12 hour shifts and this is the first time since that i've actually been able to sit down at my desk and write like a human being and lemme tell ya.......feels good. i think this is my fave chapter so far, at least for my writing.
> 
> im a shinji hirako stan first and a human being second, he wants to go down there and pop his head around the corner and whisper "bitch--" and then disappear before aizen sees him
> 
> anyway im exhausted and im gonna go drink some more wine, i would super appreciate some comments to help me recover from the very long weekend


	6. Dally.

The sun shines for days on end and it doesn’t bother her like it usually does. She catches her reflection in sundry windows, noting the honey-tone of her skin, and she smiles. Feeling, for the first time in ages, a little less ugly and a little more like a person. She hates to owe it to a man, even if he is a sweet man, a kind man, a man who winks at her when no one is looking and whose smile has proven to electrify. But maybe it’s not his doing. Maybe he’s just cleared the fog a little bit, allowing her to see herself. Allowing her to  _ be _ herself.

One quiet afternoon, she meets Rangiku for lunch. Little boxes of prepared food, stolen right out from under Toshiro’s nose, and they sit on the garden wall to people-watch as they eat.

“So,” Rangiku says, already with that teasing tone overtaking her. “How are things with your captain?”

“You’re reading into it far too much, Rangiku,” Momo defends, too sternly. “But it’s fine. He’s been very nice to me. Sometimes I worry he’s holding back any...discipline. Like I’m too fragile or something.”

“He doesn’t strike me as that much of a softie.”

“Hm…” Momo smiles, looking down at her hands, trying not to sound too giddy. “You’ve never seen him be that way. He’s different, alone.”

Rangiku nearly spits out her food.

“Alone? Don’t tell me--”

“He’s only come over once, okay!?” she protests, her fingers curling into the fabric of her uniform, clutching onto her thighs like she’ll fall apart. “He’s sad, sometimes. Even though he smiles a lot and acts like he doesn’t care.”

“Ah,” Rangiku says, nodding knowingly. “He cares about  _ you. _ ”

“I’m his lieutenant. He ought to. That’s what…” She takes a pause, too long and too heavy. “That’s what good captains do.”

“I think it’s a little more than that, Momo.”

“Hm?”

“There he is, speak of the devil.”

Momo jumps a little, her head perking up to look over across the stone pathway, to see Captain Hirako walking with Captain Otoribashi. They look pretty serious. She admires their camaraderie, their closeness. To have lived through something so awful with someone…

But she forsakes her dear friend, she realizes. Rangiku has survived with her. She’s had her heart broken, too, just like her. Just like Hirako and his friends…

“Are you gonna say hello or what?” Rangiku urges, elbowing her. 

“He’s busy!”

“He’s slacking off.”

“It could be important...Captain stuff.”

“He’s looking over here.”

“Oh--”

Rangiku hums and gives the two captains a flirtatious wave, and Momo resists the urge to bury her face in her hands. She lifts one hand to wave a polite hello, and finds it hard to keep any composure. He looks so...sincere. His eyes are the most honest she’s ever seen, and his boyish grin is sweet like desserts.

“You are  _ smitten _ ,” Rangiku says through her teeth. “And so is he.”

“Shu _ t up, _ ” Momo pleads.

“I’ll prove it.”

“If you say anything to him I’ll light you on fire, Rangiku.”

“So feisty!”

“Okay, we’ve been waving too long and now it’s weird…”

They settle their hands back in their laps, and Momo’s eyes flutter from the ground and back to her captain. He stares, too, a blank gaze across the pathway, and she wishes so much she could read it. Her interpretation is colored by the blossoming infatuation. She knows better, now, than to leave things open to her heart’s assumptions. She can trust no one to love her and tell the truth. Not anymore. Not even him.

The two captains move along, walking close. Momo feels a pang of jealousy in her chest, wondering just how involved they really are. They spent a century exiled together, suffering the same situation, holed up in the same building. And Shinji  _ did _ say he slept around a lot. He _ does  _ talk about Captain Otoribashi with an unparalleled fondness…  _ Rosey, he’s a doll. Ol’ Rosey, I don’t think I coulda made it without him _ . She chews on her bottom lip, despising herself. He is not hers to covet.

“I’m serious, Rangiku,” she says solemnly. “Don’t say anything to him.”

“I won’t. I promise.”

-

He knows he shouldn’t, but it’s so hard to say no to Rose when he begs to go out for drinks, even in the middle of the damn day. The weather is bright and sunny, the air just right, and it begs for them to sit outside with a bottle of sake, beneath the awning of their favorite bar. Work has been tough lately, and now, after so much time, they know how to pace themselves.

Life isn’t that hard anymore. It’s not so tragic they have to numb it all out. Now they can simply enjoy one another’s company, and a drink, and the sunshine.

“She really is such a charming girl. Shinji,” Rose says, out of the blue, his lips pursed haughtily over his cup. “Have your feelings changed?”

“Do we gotta talk about this?” he groans, eagerly taking a healthy sip of his sake.

“I’m afraid we do.”

Shinji sighs and rests his elbows on the bar. 

“No. It’s just worse.”

“I suspected.”

“Huh?”

“Shinji, dear, you know I think you’re very clever, but sometimes you can be very much an idiot.”

“Gee, thanks…”

“You proudly proclaim your affections for countless girls, and you forget about them the very next day. Young Hinamori, you spend endless time with her, you talk of her so fondly, and yet you swear it’s just fleeting!”

“That’s not fair.”

“And why not?”

“...I forget about boys the next day, too, now n’ then.”

Rose laughs, pressing a hand to his cheek.

“My mistake. But please, Shinji, do not lie to me. Do you love her?”

He looks sidelong at Rose, a dull sheen over his eyes. He groans as he lays his head on the bar, looking down to the ground beneath them.

“Dunno. I could. If I let it go on any longer, I will.”

He feels a comforting hand on his back, and his shoulders slope. Always the touch of another of his family seems to relieve so much of his anxiety, no matter the issue.

“What are you going to do?” Rose asks, free of judgment, running that hand up and down Shinji’s back.

“I’m…” he says, lifting his head. “I’m gonna have another drink.”

Later, after constructing quite the buzz, he wanders back to the barracks, just a little less nervous and a little less heartsick. Even if she should feel the same way, how would it work? His subordinate....he’s already barely trusted by everyone who solidified themselves in the Gotei in his absence. Surely he would only be met with scorn, painted as a womanizer who seduced her because she was vulnerable.

What hurts the most, maybe, is that he knows himself capable of being that much of an asshole.

As he saunters up the walkway to the entrance, he sees a familiar shape. Matsumoto, perched coquettishly against the pillars.

“Evenin’,” he says, tipping his head.

“Hello, Captain.” 

As he walks by, she pushes herself off from the pillar and follows.

“Somethin’ ya need to talk about, doll?” he asks. He winces. Rose is always right. About everything.

“Just wanted to see you,” she coos. He stops in his tracks, tilting his head back and furrowing his brow, wondering what she’s on about.

“Oh yeah?”

“You know, I…” she says, approaching, lifting one well-manicured hand and walking her fingers up his chest. “I’ve always thought you were handsome.”

His eyes widen and his cheeks flush. He knows how many men would kill to be him right now, and he has half a mind to look around and make sure none of them are watching, drawing their swords to do just that.

“Um--” he stammers. “Y’ain’t so bad yourself…”

She grins.

“Wanna get a drink?” she asks, and she sniffs the air for his breath. “Why stop now, hm?”

“Listen, Matsumoto--” 

He takes her hand and pulls it away from his chest.

“What?”

“I’m...flattered…” He struggles to get through it. He scolds himself, looking upon her, how she welcomes him, how she’s so radiant in the evening light. But it doesn’t stir him like it should. All he can feel is the burning presence of his lieutenant, yards away, alone in her quarters… “I don’t think it’s a very good idea…”

At first she pouts, a look that must drive even the most strong-willed men utterly mad. But then the grin creeps back upon her face.

“I  _ knew _ it!” she hisses, balling her fists in victory.

“Y-- what?” He slumps down, his posture deteriorating all the more than usual.

“The only reason you’d say no to me is if you liked someone else!”

He gives her a flat look.

“Right. That’s the _ only _ reason.”

“Oh, don’t you lie to me, Mister. If it wasn’t for her you’d have jumped at the chance--”

“She--” he begins, and then he catches himself. God, Matsumoto is like a trickster goddess. “I don’t know who you’re talking about.”

Matsumoto folds her arms over her ample chest, and, surprising even himself, he doesn’t look. 

“You should tell her, Captain,” she says, earnest and soft. “You could be good to her. She needs that.”

He is so ready to protest, to tell her she’s out of her mind, but he’s too tipsy to have much dignity left. He sighs and turns away, ambling lazily over to the rock wall, and he sits.

“It’s not that simple, Matsumoto,” he laments.

“Isn’t it?” she asks, walking over and sitting beside him.

“I’m her captain, first off. And she’s...she’s been through so much--”

“Don’t tell me you’re thinking of her as ‘damaged goods,’” she warns, growing quite fiery.

“Nah, no, that’s not it. She’s…” He gulps and turns to look at her, a defeated look in his eyes. “She’s incredible.”

“I know.”

“She’s so pretty.”

“She is.”

“But you know how people _ talk _ .”

Matsumoto smirks, and then she stands up, brandishing her pink scarf as if she’s dancing.

“I know all about that, Captain Hirako. People talk about me all the time.” She indicates her shape, her allure. And then she grows serious, letting her arms drop to her sides. “I loved someone that betrayed me, too. People see me with another man and I know what they’re thinking.”

“Which is what?”

“That I’m _ rebounding _ . That I’m trying to fill a void.”

“And what  _ are  _ you doing?”

She huffs. But she smiles at him, sweetly.

“Going on with my fucking life.” 

He smiles right back. People don’t give her any credit for being wise.

“But there’s a power dynamic there. I’m her boss--”

“You and I both know it won’t matter in the end. The only way you can escape it is not being her captain anymore, and I know that’s not going to happen.”

He shakes his head. She’s right. He’s given too much to this division, and so has Hinamori.

“Captain,” she says, approaching him again, sitting back down at his side. “Even though our lives are long, they’re still too short. She deserves a man like you. Now.”

“...you’re a good woman, Matsumoto,” he says.

“I know!”

He rolls his eyes as she jumps to her feet.

“And I  _ do _ want that drink, some time!”

“Oh yeah? Who do you want to be jealous that you need me as a prop?” he teases.

“Oh, too many to name, Sir.”

She shuffles away. He stares at his toes, gathering his lips to one side, feeling incredibly sober and incredibly humbled. Resolutely, he makes a decision. It’s not as though he has to come to her doorstep with a bouquet of roses and proclaim his undying love. Not just yet. But he can allow himself to embrace his feelings. He can flirt, and he can court, and he can smile openly at all of her charms. 

Tomorrow they have a meeting scheduled. He goes to bed imagining the thousands of ways to show her how he feels.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> rangiku you're the only person i trust
> 
> anyyyyyyway i love shinji hirako and im making my cosplay of him for halloween, just got my wig in the mail and it'll be perfect once i trim it a bit
> 
> momo stop being a dingus
> 
> plz comment, i love u


	7. Dance.

She leaves her quarters in the afternoon, just as the sun begins it’s too-swift crawl from above. She’s dressed no different than normal, but she’s been sure to wet her fingers with perfume and dab it along her jaw and wrists. She’s tucked her silky hair behind one ear. She feels foolish for thinking that any amount of her preening could seduce a man like him. She is too delicate a woman for Shinji Hirako. 

But still, in the mirror she smiles, practicing a greeting, modulating her voice lower, deeper like a seductress, hating how it sounds. She concedes to just be herself, no matter how awful that person is.

She knocks on his door in the way she’s gotten used to, that he’s gotten used to, three quick raps on the wooden frame, so dulcet from her dainty knuckles. She presses her cold hands to her cheeks as she waits, trying to fill her face free of the heat she feels.

He slides open the door, already grinning, and she allows herself the fantasy of thinking he is excited to see her. She bows, as ever.

“Oh, come on, doll—“ he sighs, grabbing her by the shoulder and righting her posture. Doll?! She squeaks as he pulls her into his office. “Yain’t gotta be like that when it’s just us.”

“O-oh...alright,” she agrees, reeling from the touch, from his sweet words. He must think nothing of it. She knows how he flirts… She smooths down her hakama and sits in the chair opposite his desk, but he doesn’t sit down. He strolls over to the window, leaning one arm against it, looking out at the afternoon sky. The sun frames him like a halo. He burns so brightly, even against her dim, dull light.

Against her. The thought makes her cross her legs. She would love to have him close. She would love for him to press himself to her, letting her know what it’s like to be with a man. A real man, who doesn’t lie. 

“Beautiful day, huh?” he says absently. He doesn’t wait for her to answer before turning around, rounding his desk, perching on it and crossing his ankles as he leans back lazily. She wonders if it is an invitation. She wonders if she’s supposed to be offended. But he just smiles sweetly and folds his arms across his chest. “Wanted t’ask ya somethin’.”

She falters, feeling her chest flutter and her ears turn hot.

“Y-yes?”

“Well, two things actually. First, I gotta know if you’ll come with me to the river later to watch the sunset.”

She stares gapingly.

“I mean, it ain’t gonna be just us.”

“Oh.”

“So?”

“Yes, I’d love to.” She coughs and steadies herself, shifting in her seat. That was nearly humiliating. “What was your other question?”

He smiles and looks down, away from her, and his hand crawls along his desk toward a small vintage remote. He presses a button and she hears the record player begin to spin, hears the gentle scratch of the needle meeting the grooves.

“Gonna ask ya again if ya wanna dance,” he says, holding out one skinny hand for her to take. What has gotten into him? She cannot stifle her giggling, and it is without a moment’s hesitation that she slips her hand into his.

She gasps when he tugs her from her seat, bringing her flush to his chest, his other hand settling on her back. She feels so very small...but, close to him, her free hand settling on his chest, she notes how frail he really is. How thin. She can’t help the way her fingers curl into his uniform. She has not been this close to someone since...well, since she nearly died. The first time. She gulps, her instinct telling her she is about to be run through with a sword, but that awful tearing feeling in her gut is utterly absent, replaced with something akin to those old proverbial butterflies. She’s safe. He’s kind.

The music is slow and sad, but the woman’s voice enchants. Smooth and low, so full of sorrowful love.

“Who is this?” she asks, her voice more quiet than she intended.

“Ella Fitzgerald,” he tells her, leading her away from the desk and over onto the round carpet in the empty space of his office. “Do ya like it?” he asks, a timbre to his voice that seems to hold so many layers of his question. Does she like it? Does she like the romantic sound that fills his office? Yes. Does she like how she can feel his breathing against her as they sway? Yes. Does she like this feeling, that there is no world outside of them? More than anything.

-

He tries not to be too pleased with himself, too proud. He means not to use easy wiles and seductive tricks on her; he’s simply a one-trick pony, for once using his charm with a desperate uncertainty. But when she agrees to dance, he is absolved.

“Momo?” he asks again. “Ya didn’t answer…”

“I like it very much,” she says, and she slides her hand up his chest, letting her arm fall limp behind his shoulder.

“Thought ya might,” he says, grinning, snaking his arm further around her back, bringing her ever closer. She settles her head on his chest, and he worries she will cry again. But all he feels against his collar is the nervous heat from her cheeks. He rests his chin on her head. “Is this okay?”

She nods. He rubs his thumb against her palm, the soft affection making him dizzy. He can feel the curve of her, his hand just inches from that perfect, perky bottom he’s longed to lecherously pinch. She is a firecracker, and he cannot help but imagine how it translates in the sack. He wonders if she would become some domineering goddess threatening to snap him in two, or some wilting, nervous virgin he has to lead carefully through the throes of love.

Both possibilities entice him, and he feels a stirring in his chest that radiates, low into his stomach and lower still, and he becomes very aware of how his hips are flush with her. 

But in his pride he wants to show her. He wants her to know just what she manages to do to him.

Ella’s voice carries sweetly through the air, and he grins, playfully spinning her away, watching as her thin, birdlike body splays before him, how her arms stretch and her hips move to hypnotize. He spins her back, rougher than before, holding her close, and he relishes in the delighted surprise in her face. 

“Yain’t a bad dancer, doll,” he tells her as they go on.

“I-I’m not?”

“Nah, not at all. I could, ah, teach ya lots of things, if ya like.”

“About dancing?” she parries, and he nearly shivers in adoration.

“Among other things,” he says, unable to stop himself.

The tempo picks up and he spins her beneath his arm, and she squeals just a little. She allows him to lead, firmly limp to his guidance. He brings her close, this time with her back to him, and brings down their hands so that he may wrap his arms around her little waist. There they sway, and as if bid by instinct, she reaches up with one hand and places it on his cheek. He sighs, utterly at her whim, and begins to slowly slide his hands up her sides, passing by her perfect chest, unwilling just yet to really make a move. He grabs for that hand that’s so soft against his cheek, spinning her again, and this time he catches her full in his arms and dips her down, deep, her arms clambering to wrap around his neck as if worried she’ll fall to the ground.

“I’m not gonna drop ya,” he promises. Never. Cruel is the man who broke her heart before. Still he seethes with anger, even when caught in so sweet a moment. Lingering there, her hair falling away from her face and her lips parted in amazement, he is frozen in his tracks. Her eyes seem to plead with him, so starry and wide, and he runs his tongue along the inside of his bottom lip. 

Before he can muster up the nerve, the ground shakes below them, accompanied by a sound so deep and horrible he worries his ears will bleed. They fall to the floor, and he lands between her legs, her arms spread weakly on the carpet. Even in his panic, he thirsts for her. So what if the world is exploding around them? He swears her obi is already loosened. To just tug at it a little, to just—

The noise and the shaking come again, and he curls himself around her like a shield. He can feel the rise and fall of her chest, quick with fear.

“What’s going on?” she whimpers. 

He struggles to get his senses together, and then he stands and helps her to her feet, gripping hard onto her hand. Something is very wrong. His hollow rages at the interruption, at the unsatisfied lust, and he gets the distinct sense that they are in grave danger. 

He can see that she, too, is trying to discern. 

“We’re under attack,” she says quietly. He nods, slow and solemn, and tears his eyes away from her face to look at where Sakanade hangs on the wall.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I believe that’s Sternritter C (the cock block)
> 
> Anyway now begins the suffering, to be fair it’s been a real minute since I’ve read the Quincy arc so I’m def gonna get a lot of shit wrong and just adjust what happens to fit this narrative. I really liked the arc and thought the art was gorgeous for it, but really only focused on Cang Du because I used to RP him too along with Shinji. So.
> 
> Comments always appreciated!


	8. Dread.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> like i said last chapter, i dont remember the timeline of the quincy arc super well and i'm not trynna read a million chapters of the bleach manga right now to refresh myself, so i'm tailoring the details to fit this particular story while trying to maintain some of the major points.

She feels so dizzy, it all compounding inside of her. Brand new desire that aches all over, the thrill of soft music and dancing, and the utter terror she feels at their doom. Whomever this new enemy is, it’s unlike anything she has ever felt before. Hollows have their darkness and their malice, but they always feel so empty when they’re near. This presence is bitter and scathing. It hates.

“We’ve got to get to the first division,” Shinji says, still holding tightly onto her hand. “God dammit,” he groans, letting go, leaving her bereft of his touch. He storms over to Sakanade and whips it down from where it hangs, holding the hilt firmly even as it stays in its sheath. “Where’s Tobiume?”

“My quarters,” she answers, too meek, too breathless still. 

“I’ll--”

She gives him a hopeful glance. She doesn’t need his protection on the short trip, but still…

“Go arm yourself,” he says simply, a resigned look on his face. He has grown suddenly so serious, and she wishes it did not excite her so. He is usually so casual, so nonchalant, but the grim look on his face is like nothing she’s ever seen. She nods resolutely.

“Yes, Captain,” she agrees, straightening her posture. “I’ll meet you there.”

“Good. And uh…” His sternness breaks just the slightest, just for one sweet moment. “Nice dancin’ with ya.”

In a flash, he’s gone. His reiatsu lingers in the air, all warm and blossoming, cutting straight through her chest. She sighs and it sounds so _ lewd _ . 

She makes quick work of it, using shunpo to get to her quarters swiftly. She opens the door and strides in with some newfound confidence, spurred on by want and that trusting gaze her captain had for her. She takes her sword in hand and heads for the First division.

The Seireitei is bathed in a cold and terrible white. She can already smell freshly spilled blood, and she wills herself not to breathe through her nose. The smell is too painful. She’s smelled it burgeoning from her own chest before. It’s the smell that she remembers most. The blood smelled even as she healed. It dried, and caked, and cracked, but always left the stench of old copper. And this blood, all her colleagues…

She feels death surround her. Her heart aches, trying to place the emptiness she feels. Someone dear has died. She is missing so much, and so fast, and there are tears streaming from her eyes as she travels across the rooftops.

But when she arrives at the first division, she wipes them away with her sleeve. She hears the beginning chatter of the meeting, her Captain’s voice absent, and she rushes in.

He’s alive, standing against the wall with his arms folded. She softens and runs to his side.

“What’s--”

“Listen,” he interrupts, looking blankly over at the rest of the Captains and Lieutenants. Well, most of them. Kira,  _ Kira _ \-- where is he? He’s always punctual and he’s always _ there  _ and she doesn’t _ see _ him and her lips tremble and she balls her hands into fists and oh, god, the tears will burst from her eyes like a faulty dam if she doesn’t--

Shinji puts a steely hand on her shoulder, and she remembers how to breathe.

“Captain Commander Yamamoto is dead,” Captain Kyoraku says gravely. She gasps and holds a hand to her mouth. She listens as if stuck in a vacuum as he informs them all of what’s happening. She hears enough to know that it will not be easy. Quincy, so many of them, all impossibly strong, unique, and deadly. “It appears we have a brief reprieve from their assault but it won’t last long. I’m sure of it. Captain Otoribashi…”

Rose looks up from his solemn thought. Oh, he must feel it too…

“Go follow up on the disappearance of your Lieutenant and his squadron,” Kyoraku bids him, speaking too slow and gentle, as if trying to lie. Trying not to say aloud that their dear Kira is gone--

A tear does fall down her cheek, but she does not allow herself to feel the painful racking of a sob. Not now. She cries enough as it is.

“Captain Hirako,” Kyoraku commands, and Shinji looks at him straight-on, that serious fog remaining over his eyes. “You and Lieutenant Hinamori will head to the Eastern front.”

Shinji nods, and cracks his neck.

“Yes sir,” he answers, and he looks down at her, his eyes glassy but dim. “Come on, Hinamori.”

She ought not to feel hurt, she knows, that he’s suddenly addressing her with so little fondness. She scolds herself for being petulant and girlish, and follows at his heels.

They do not speak as they travel. She can feel in his flaring reiatsu so much hesitation. A Captain ought to be calm before battle, but something within him is fluttering out of control. It makes her squirm inside, it does not help the warm, wet feeling she still has between her legs. He wants her, she’s sure of it, and it is distracting him. It distracts her, too, she knows. But they can’t let that get in their way. They can’t forsake Soul Society just because they’re lonesome.

They arrive at the Eastern front and it’s already a disaster. In the distance they hear explosions, screams, pained wailing and the cracking of stone. It’s full-on war. It is devastation from every angle.

“Not very convenient,” Shinji says as he looks out upon the horror. She feels relieved to hear his casual tone come back, even just a little. “I mean, there ain’t exactly a _ good _ time for a Quincy army to come kill all of us, but I was kinda...busy.”

She stifles her giggling. 

“When it’s over, we…” she trails off, clenching and unclenching her fist around Tobiume’s hilt. “Well, if you want me, that is.”

She hears him gulp, and is pleased to see him wide-eyed and gaping at her, a distinct flush in his cheeks.

“Ya got no idea, doll,” he says. And then he folds his arms and points one skinny finger at her. “So don’t die, hear me? Got plans for ya.”

She nods. God, how she wants to collapse into his arms. She could kiss him, here, maybe, before it all goes to shit. Before their certain doom. Romantic, isn’t it, a first kiss on the battlefield, everything breaking around you...But she has to maintain at least some level of professionalism.

Something cracks from above, rending them both on their backs as the white stone pillar on which they stood is cleaved in two. 

“Captain--” she shouts, squinting through the debris. “Captain!?”

She feels him, still. He’s alive but unseen, no doubt face-to-face with whatever cruel enemy has just ambushed them. Stupid,  _ stupid _ , allowing herself to be so distracted, and now her face is covered in scratches and her joints ache, and she’s no longer with him. She rights herself, struggling to her feet, and she draws her sword.

“Snap, Tobiume,” she says, and her fine blade transforms into its fearsome shikai. 

-

The battle passes in a blur. A white heat around him, he fights as if controlled by strings affixed to his every limb. He has to win, he has to live, because on the other side of that pillar there’s a girl who years for him. Though the Quincy’s bombs accost him at every turn, though he struggles to maintain his acute hypnosis and keep her guessing, he fights on with a determination he’s not felt in a long time. Like trying to quell his inner monster, this is a task most dire. Making it through, seeing her again, taking her to bed in a manly fashion--

His adversary speaks, snide and flirtatious, and he parries.

“Watch it, baby,” he says, taking a moment to catch his breath. “I got a big date after we’re done.”

“Ew,” Basterbine spits, wiping sweat from her bow with the back of her white glove. “Why bother, when you’re having such a good time with someone like me?”

He sticks out his tongue.

“Stop that!” she urges him, getting frustrated. 

“I don’t like fightin’ girls, ya know.”

“Then let’s skip that part and let me kill you now.”

Their battle goes on, and finally he has her on the ground, Sakanade’s blade to her neck, his foot pressing hard into her chest.

“I dare you,” she says, blood dripping from the sides of her mouth. He stares down at her, appraising her resolve. 

“Nah,” he says, shrugging, retracting his blade.

“Wh-- hey!” she shouts, struggling to sit up. “You’re just gonna leave me here? Don’t be such a coward!”

He turns back to her, readying some quip, some remark, but then he feels beneath his feet the terrible rumble of utter malice. Her eyes grow wide, and her gloved fingers curl into the ground as her eyes grow dark.

“No--” she begs into the void. “No, no, no--”

Their sovereign leader, whomever he is, drains her of her life force. She wilts back to the ground, her breath short and her legs kicking. It is cruelty unmatched, this. Despite his victory, Shinji knows it is far from over. This will be a war unlike anything he’s lived through in all his years. He grips Sakanade’s hilt and closes his eyes, searching for anything familiar. 

He does not feel her. He seethes. If someone’s killed her, he resolves to die in vengeance, if he must. She is a woman too sweet for death, who has suffered enough and deserves to live, and live long. She deserves the most tender touch and the softest kiss. She deserves to have her body elated beneath him, shouting in ecstasy. The _ things  _ he will do when this is over… He licks his lips and soldiers on, striding across the battlefield to find out just how hopeless things really are.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> g od i need them to bone already

**Author's Note:**

> Shinji is my favorite. I used to RP him but it was too stressful etc so I miss having the chance to write him. Baby boy....baby.....
> 
> Let me know what you think so far! Will likely update soon. You can find me on Twitter @ peebnutbutter .


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